“Thank Heaven!” muttered my father. Then aloud, “I have only just heard from Hannibal here. You gave me a terrible fright.”
My father took hold of my hands to hold them in his for a few moments, as he looked full in my eyes; and I wondered at it, for I was not old enough then to understand his emotion, nor to think I was bad enough to stop in bed.
Ten minutes later I was out in the enclosure, and learned a little more about what had taken place after I was knocked down insensible. How there had been several hand-to-hand encounters where the Indians had determinedly climbed over and gained a footing, from which they were dislodged directly, with the result that several were killed and wounded—four of our party also having ugly wounds.
As I was going across the enclosure, hearing how the enemy had been finally beaten off, and had retreated into the forest, where it was not considered safe to follow them, Colonel Preston met us, looking jaded and anxious, but his face brightened up as he saw me, and he came up and shook hands.
“Why, George Bruton, you are a lucky fellow,” he cried, laughingly. “Two wounds. This is grand. Of course he must be promoted, Bruton, as soon as peace is proclaimed.”
“Why, George,” said my father, as we went on, “what’s the matter?”
“I don’t like to be laughed at, father,” I said; “and Colonel Preston was making fun of me, as if I were a little child.”
“He did not mean it unkindly. There, come and have some light breakfast, and you must keep out of the sun.”